I Never Told You What I Did For A Living
by Hayley Nichole Williams
Summary: What happens when you owe a bad person a whole lot of money and you don't repay him in the 3 weeks he gives you?  The only person you love gets kidnapped and you're forced to kill her before anyone else does. That's what.  Brendon Urie story.


"You're not good enough. No-one will ever love you," the voice taunted,"You're nothing. You don't even know who you truly are inside. You're a liar, a freak, a cheat and a fake. You don't deserve anyone to love you. You deserve hatred and pain and loneliness. You're not good enough for anyone and you never will be. You might as well give up now. Stop. Trying."

Tears painfully stung my eyes. I couldn't help but sob at the horrid words coming from the mouth of the person I loved...

The dark room had absolutely nothing in it. Nothing but Brendon and I. The walls and floor were concrete, making it colder and darker. It wasn't very comforting at all. My ankles were tied together by a long length of rope.

Brendon held my bare right arm out in front of me. His cold fingers traced the silver scars on my pale skin. He was muttering something angrily under his breath; making sure I couldn't hear a single word.

I tried to fight against the restraints, but it was no use, my efforts were worthless. My heart begun racing when he pulled out what looked like a butchers knife from his bag by his foot. Being cut was something I couldn't handle well. The thought of it made my skin crawl and my stomach churn.

"You're so imperfect. Too imperfect. I'll do you the favor of destroying this imperfect picture you've painted," he smirked, his dark brown eyes filled with sadistic lust.

I couldn't speak. I wanted to protest, but it all came out as a muffled whimper. I had never liked any part of my own body; but I was always told that suicide, or murder, even, was never the answer.

I was painfully choking on my own words. I didn't have the strength to speak nor scream; so I just sat and stuggled against his grasp. But obviously and unfortunately, the strength of a 16 year old girl is nothing compared to that of a 24 year old man.

"You're so pale... you're like a blank canvas. I'm the artist. You're the blank pages. I'm the narrator who is going to write a story to tell. Only... your boring, pale, body is the actual canvas and the blank sheets of paper. ANd I'm painting you with your own blood," Brendon laughed half heartedly,"I'm using your blood; to tell this story."

I kept fighting with what little strength I had left, not caring if it was hopeless or not. I didn't want to just give in and die without a fight. I needed to have something to hold on to when that something couldn't be my own life.

I winced as the cold metal sliced through my flesh, leaving a trail of blood, tears and agonising pain.

"You're not good enough," the words stung almost as bad as the cut.

The blade cut through my skin and dug deeper, hurting more and more as each second passed by. More blood. More tears. Maybe even a scream that I couldn't hear over the sharp, ringing noise of my own pain.

"No-one will ever love you."

The third cut wasn't as bad, but the fourth was deeper still.

"You're nothing. You don't even know who you truly are inside."

The fifth only cut me enough to make it lightly bleed.

"You're a freak."

I realized then that he had a pattern in the way that he was cutting me. Soft. Deep. Soft. Hard. Soft. Deep. It was enough to make me throw up, watching the knife cut deep into my own flesh and seeing the blood ooze out like the jam center of a donut.

"You're a liar."

"A fake."

"A cheat."

"You don't deserve anyone to love you."

"You deserve hatred."

"And pain."

By that tenth cut it was almost unbearable. I could feel my stomach turning inside out and I was ready to vomit. I felt light headed from the loss of blood, which I knew was not a good thing.

"And loneliness."

"You're not good enough."

"For ANYONE."

"And you never will be!"

"You may as well..."

"Give up now!"

And honestly, by that 16th cut, I was ready to give up. I had stopped struggling but at least I knew I tried my best. I hadn't vomited yet; I managed to calm my stomach down. But, man, did giving up seem like a bloody good idea.

"No-one will miss you."

"You have no friends."

"No-one wants to be with you."

"You're revolting."

"You're a disgrace."

"People laugh at your pain."

"There's no real you."

"You're going to burn in Hell."

24 cuts up my right arm. I leaned back against the wall and closed my eyes. I hoped that before he could do too much more to me; I'd fall asleep and never wake up. And if I did, I hoped it would all be a nightmare. But then I rememvered who I was. Me. And when you're me, nothing ever goes the way you want it too.

Brendon didn't bother tying my right arm up because he knew it was useless with the amount of strength I had and the amount of pain it was causing me. He then started the same process on my left arm, saying the same words as before.

"You may as well give up!" His words echoed in the room.

I felt my conciousness slowly slipping away from me. Brendon couldn't have looked any sadder. I could have sworn he was crying.

"Stop! Trying!" He swiped the bloody blade across my cheek, leaving a long scarlet line.

I screamed so loud that I could feel it vibrate my rib cage, I even heard it over the sound of my pain.

"I'm sorry Mikalah," he choked.

I sat and watched as he gave himself 24 cuts up each of his arms. There was no pattern in the way he was cutting anymore. It was just deep. Deep. Deep. Deep. A constant line of equally deep cuts. He put the knife onto the ground and begun to untie my legs.

When my legs were free, he pulled my limp body into his arms. He could tell I was dying. He held me close, our blood spilling over each other. If I knew this was the way I was going to die, I would have killed myself earlier.

"Someone was going to end you in worse ways than this. I had to be the one to do it. Please. Please forgive me," he sighed, pressing his forehead against mine. I could feel his shaky breath against my skin,"You're dying, my love. I'm sorry I could never tell you the truth about what was going on. Why I was away so much. Why I was so worried about your safety all the time."

I felt like slapping him. My life was being drained from me as each second went by. I could FEEL myself dying. Out of all the things he could have said, he had to point out the obvious.

"I'm a selfish man. I'm sorry for that. But it's the only way for me to die happy; if I don't die alone. I had to drag you down with me; instead of me dying while trying to protect you," he was choking on his own words and tears,"I'm so sorry."

He picked the knife up from the ground and positioned it at his chest. I closed my eyes as I heard the crunch of the knife going through his chest and into his heart.

Brendon pulled my face to his, kissing me passionately. We both kissed until we breathed out last breath.

My love was selfish. He was stupid. He took my life so no-one else could. Somewhere our death is on tape. Proof for whoever it was that wanted us dead; so no-one else would get in trouble. As to why they wanted us dead, I'll never know. He didn't have time to tell me the secrets of his life away from me.

But all I knew was that he did it for a reason. He wanted to be with me forever. He didn't care about anyone else or what they thought.

He may have been selfish and stupif. He may have been sick and twisted. He may have been the biggest mistake of my life, but I loved him.

Calling our story a modified version of "Romeo and Juliet" would be, by far, an overexaggeration. I like to call it blood drenched, sick, twisted, sadistic, love.


End file.
